Reminiscing

Je suis dans une humeur pensive aujourd'hui. Yes, it's a pensive mood I'm in. What triggered this you ask? Well, it's been coming on for a while. I'll blame Spring. It does that sometimes. Don't get me wrong, it's not a bad thing to reminisce.

In the photo, from back in the day, from left to right are: Your Humble Scribe, my brother (The Old Vermonter), my Grampa Ray, my Dad, Gramp's dog Bimmie and that furry object (with a tail - to the extreme right), is Gramp's other dog, Tippie. Both of those boys were nearly always in a state of constant motion. If they weren't dashing around being happy to see everybody, they were probably in hot pursuit of a soon-to-be-late woodchuck. In this photo they're being happy.

The picture was taken in front of Gramp's sugaring shack, where he and my Uncle Hank would spend many hours in the spring boiling down maple sap into maple syrup. Those big metal cans in front of Gramp were used to collect the sap for transport to the sugaring shack. (By the way, I honestly can't remember what we called the "sugaring shack" back then. We probably didn't really have a name for it, it just "was". I'm sure if anyone remembers, it would be The Old Vermonter. Or my Mom, she's good at remembering those little details.)

Speaking of The Old Vermonter, he's the one who pulled this photo from the family archive shortly after he read this. We chatted about our childhood, which we both agreed was incredible and great. 'Twas then we realized that things nowadays (not quite in our dotage but closer than we were) are not so bad either.

Now those cans were actually milk cans. Here's how things worked, near as I can recall. Gramp would hitch up a trailer to his tractor, with those cans (empty) loaded up on the trailer. Then he'd drive up along the line of trees which had been tapped to collect syrup. Tapped as in had a hole drilled into the tree, a "tap" inserted, then a bucket hung from the tap to collect the sap. The next picture should make that clear.

On the left is the tap (with sap dripping out where it's supposed to drip out) and on the right is the sap bucket in place. The little roof on the bucket was to keep twigs, bits of bark and other debris out of the sap.

So Gramp would pull up to each tree and empty the sap buckets into the milk cans. When full, back to the sugaring shack he'd go. Where the sap would be boiled down into syrup.

Now when we would visit in the spring, we boys would often go along on these sap collecting expeditions. If we went, so did the dogs, who would run behind the tractor as we trundled up the hill and through the woods. Now Bimmie was part beagle, he was kinda low to the ground and had these big, floppy ears. So when Bimmie would run behind the tractor his ears would be flopping up and down in a most amusing manner. One day The Old Vermonter shouted out "Hey, it looks like Bimmie is flying! He's flapping his ears to stay airborne!" Seeing Bimmie "flying" behind the tractor (with Tippie in loose tactical formation to one side or the other) is a very fond memory The Old Vermonter and I share.

As Lewis and Oswald might have said, "Good times..."

Seems like all the really good memories involve family. I know mine do.

Update:

From The Old Vermonter himself (who for now is going by "c24bba3e-9d6d-11e2-a4a1-000bcdcb8a73" on this here blog - though we didn't call him that back in the day).

We did call it a "sugar house" back then. I know we call them that now. Wasn't sure if that's what we called it back then. But I'll take The Old Vermonter's word on that. It's why we call him The Old Vermonter!

This post is dedicated to the memory of Charlie. He was a good dog.

It's Still Kinda Cold, But Spring Is Here

Though there was a bitter chill to the wind yesterday morning and this morning. Spring is here. All of the daffodils are starting to open, even in the dusk the borders of the yard are alive with color.

These small red tulips showed up two years ago. Of their own accord. The Missus Herself did not plant them. Do the wee folk like tulips?

The hyacinth are making their appearance. (Not to be confused with "our Hyacinth" in Keeping Up Appearances.)

Um, no, not that one...

The arbor vitae did sustain some damage during the Great Blizzard of '13 (back in February). 'Tis a shame really. No doubt when the weather improves we'll need to trim the damaged limbs.

I love this tree, with it's gnarled and twisted branches. The crocuses are up, the tulips here (mostly white and yellow) are not far behind.

Daffodils and crocuses on opposite sides of the fence. (The crookedness of that fence isn't quite so apparent when all of the Missus' flowers come in. But yeah, it's as crooked as a Chicago ward healer.)

Flowers peeking up amidst the shrubbery.

Alright, alright... (What d'ye think is in those pictures anyway? We've already got shrubbery! Hhmm, but we don't have a Grail...)

This crocus looks a bit forlorn, part of the poor wee thing was frost damaged back in March. The ones in front of the house start coming up in February. Little guy has been snow covered three times. But he keeps coming back. A true New Englander!

Quite a change from less than two months ago. innit?

The Haircut

Seems a rather prosaic topic for a post, doesn't it? Perhaps. But haircuts have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. The haircut I received on Saturday last is what triggered this rampant desire to post about haircuts. Bear with me.

First off, some definitions: (from thesaurus.com) 

1) hair  is any of the cylindrical filaments characteristically growing from the epidermis of a mammal;

2) a hare  is a large, long-eared and long-legged rabbit;

3) an heir  is a person who is entitled by law or by the terms of a will to inherit the estate of another

Now just so we're all clear here, it's #1 we're talking about cutting, i.e. "hair". Not "hare" and not "heir". We won't be discussing cutting up a large, long-eared and long legged rabbit. Nor will we be talking about cutting some heir from the will. I don't want confusion to set in at this point in time, otherwise, all is lost. (Well, not "all" but certainly the entire point of this post would be lost. Not that anyone would notice anyway. They'd just figure it was another of my many tangents, diversions and digressions. Like what you're reading right now. GET ON WITH IT! Right, sorry.)

So, where do I begin? Ah yes. At some point in the last few weeks the Missus Herself began to make disparaging remarks regarding the state of my hair.

"You look like a mad scientist!", she said.

"Mwaaa haaaa haaaa", I answered.

"Whap", went 'upside my head'.

"Yes, dear." I stated in a clear, manly voice. Sounding not unlike James Earl Jones. If Jame Earl Jones sounded like a cowering, sniveling little boy. Not that I sounded like that, mind you. Or, not much like that. But I (Whap - OW, THAT HURT!) digress.

So after a week (or so) I committed myself to "go and get a haircut".

You know, you would think that after 24 years in the military I would not need to be told to get a haircut. Actually the ONLY time that I needed to be told to get a haircut was when I was a civilian. Both before the Air Force and after (which would be now, for those NOT paying attention. Don't think I didn't notice. There WILL be a quiz and this WILL be on the final!) While on active duty it was just something you did, without being told.

Why I go so long between haircuts now I think is a carry-over from my child hood. For when I was a youth, the British invaded. (I can picture my kids chortling right now, "Yeah Dad, you're so old you went to school with the Founding Fathers. Heh, you probably remember the lobster-backs marching to Concord to seize the powder and shot. No, not THAT British invasion, the Beatles, Rolling Stones, etc. THAT British invasion.)

So it soon became the thing to grow one's hair a little longer than the style popular with most Dads back in the '50's and '60's. (Which is a style still popular with Marine Drill Instructors.) Or attempt to grow one's hair a bit longer than normal.

For a long time I was convinced that I was named after Jesus (not Hay-soos, mind you) with the odd addition of the middle initial "H". As in, "Jesus H. Christ, when are you going to get a haircut?!?!?"

I'm not saying it was a constant war, just an ongoing insurgency wherein hostilities would flair up whenever the cylindrical filaments characteristically growing from the epidermis of this mammal (Your Humble Scribe) reached a length which my Father thought unseemly. Then I would reluctantly get a haircut and hostilities would subside. Until the next time the cylindrical filaments got out of hand.

All of that just to get to the point where I say, "So I drove down to Newport Naval Station to get a haircut." Now that I've got that far, it's time for another "aside" or tangent, if you will. Where I live to the base is not that far. About twelve miles. The nearest barbershop to my house is much closer than that. So the Missus Herself is often heard to ask, "Why do you have to drive all the way to the base, just to get a haircut?"

I know it must seem odd, to drive about 24 miles to get a haircut (that's round trip mileage for the spatially-challenged among you), when I could drive perhaps five miles for what seems, on the surface, to be the exact same haircut. It's not the price, it costs the same no matter which venue I choose. (It's just a haircut. "Short on the back and sides. Tapered." It's that simple. We won't discuss the "hair" on top of my head. There is a reason I always wear a hat. Well, except in church or in restaurants. Or at my Mom's house. Or at Frank and Ruth's house, or... Sorry, I'm rambling again.)

So what is the reason for the 24 mile versus 5 mile trip for to get my locks shorn?

It's the little vacuum-cleaner thingee that the barbers on base have attached to their clippers. It sucks up those little hairs that would otherwise infiltrate under my shirt collar and make me feel "all itchy" the entire day. That's the only reason I drive down to the base to get a haircut. Until now. (An example of foreshadowing that is. Weak, I know, but I do this for free ya know. Out of the bottom of my heart, as it were... GET ONE WITH IT!)

Wandered again, didn't I?

Let's fast forward a bit, shall we?

I drive onto the base and start seeing signs for "OCS Arrivals" or something to that effect. Note that OCS is an acronym for Officer Candidate School. Newport Naval Station has one of these. So I'm thinking that a new group of young men and women are arriving today to begin their transition from civilians to officers in the Naval Service of the United States. Note this fact and note it well. (The "OCS Arrivals" thing is important to our rousing tale. Okay, so it's not rousing. Perhaps "mildly amusing" would be a more apt characterization.)

I arrive at the Navy Exchange, prepared to swap a small amount of American currency for one of the barbers shortening my cylindrical filaments to a length more in keeping with the sensible sensibilities of my darling wife, the Missus Herself. That is, get a haircut. (Har, har, har, yes, to get them ALL cut. I know one of you was thinking this. There was a disturbance in the Force. That's how I knew!)

I proceed to the barber shop, still not getting it. It was then that I notice that there are legions of young men standing about in identical track suits with Navy logos on them. All of them have exceedingly short haircuts.

"Hhmm, that's odd.", I'm thinking. Until I open the door to the barber shop. The place is chock full of young males in various uniforms. All getting their hair cut. Today it seems is not a good day to get the cylindrical filaments cut.

There are brand new OCS-types, there are brand new ensigns, there are multiple Naval Academy Prep School types (for that too is at Newport Naval Station). All of whom wish to get their already very short hair styles shortened even further. Well, perhaps "wish" is the wrong word to use. I'm sure there was a bit of coercion involved. I also know that once these kids get to the fleet, their "desire" to look like Russian conscripts will go away and they'll get their haircut in a much more stylish fashion. Or what passes for stylish in the Naval Services.

At any rate, I find myself looking at the prospect of a very long wait to get my hair cut to the point where I no longer "look like a mad scientist" (mwaaaa haaaa haaaa). What to do, what to do? Fortunately I have other errands which I can run at the base. (To include a new hat, but that's a story for another time. Is anyone writing this stuff down? Remind me to do a post regarding my hat collection. Somebody? "Bueller? ... Bueller? ... Bueller?")

So I do what I can and head north, back to the home turf and that other barber shop which is within a five-mile round trip of Chez Sarge. Fully prepared to tolerate little hairs causing me to be "all itchy".

I arrive at the alternate cylindrical filament cutting establishment to find that they've remodeled the place. Now it has always looked more like a "salon" than a barbershop, now it looks even more so that way. And there are numerous "mature" women of the blue hair variety all sitting about having their coiffures sculpted into various and sundry fantastic shapes. (I didn't say "old women" because I know my maternal grandmother, if she was still alive, would smack me if I did. Come to think of it, so would my Mom. And I would no doubt deserve it. For that or for any of a number of other reasons.)

With some hesitation I approach the counter where two very lovely younger ladies are gazing with fierce concentration upon a computer screen. Eventually they notice me standing there, with a certain trepidation apparent upon my noble countenance.

"Hi, have you been here before?" Why they ask is because they want to know if I am "in the computer". Why certainly not, I say, I'm standing right here. I'm obviously far too large to fit in that small plastic electronics enclosure...

Oh, is my "name" in the computer? Yes, yes it is. I was here perhaps two years ago. (Which drew an odd look, because my hair didn't seem to have been cut two years ago but far more recently. But, again, I digress.)

They look me up by my phone number (which is hard to remember because I seldom, if ever, call myself). And shortly thereafter I am ensconced in a chair with various things tucked into my collar and draped about my shoulders.

I describe how I want my hair cut (short back and sides, tapered, no I don't know what number of clipper was used last time) and the lovely blonde lady then begins to robustly run her fingers through my hair. Kind of like you would pet a favorite hound upon the completion of a successful hunt. Though not quite that vigorous.

It had a certain stimulating effect but I'm sure she just did that to determine the extent of work required to remove the mad scientist look (mwaaa haaa haaa).

The work then began, much whirring of clippers, snipping of scissors and combing of hair ensued. Then, when the barberess (?) and I had decided that the shortness of the hair was sufficient, she dragged me over for to wash my hair.

As I was being dragged she noted my puzzled look and told me "don't-worry-it's-all-included". Included in what? I frantically asked myself. OMG! I came in for a haircut, am I being (shudder) styled?

At any rate, my locks (such as they were for now I would have looked pleasing to a Marine Drill Instructor with poor eyesight, i.e. hair was very short) having been cut and then washed were now blow-dried and suitable for inclusion in polite company.

It was with some trepidation that I approached the cash register. Wondering "just-how-much-is-this-going-to-cost".

"That will be eight dollars", the comely blonde with the dark eyes and sweet visage informed me with a smile. Gladly I paid. Gave her a ten I did and felt good about it. Also noticed that I wasn't feeling "all itchy". The shampoo must have put paid to that small annoyance.

I walked out all fresh and clean. Ready to face the world with my shiny new haircut. Also realizing that there would be no need to go to the base for future cylindrical filament maintenance. The "it's included" shampoo obviated the need for the vacuum thingee attached to the hair clippers.

Life is good I thought.

Life is good.

(I know, it was just a haircut. But it was an excellent haircut.)

Historical Reenacting

Okay, I used to be a reenactor. I'll fess up to that right now. Did Civil War reenacting from junior high school to post high school days. Did a little French and Indian War mixed in with that. Seriously considered dropping a significant amount of 1970's era currency to do Revolutionary War reenacting. (You cannot conceive of just how badly I wanted to take the King's shilling and enlist in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers. It was the red coat and the cool hat. See Image Below!)

The Royal Welsh Fusiliers

Then I went into the Air Force. Where I got to wear uniforms and get paid to do so. Rather than me doing the paying to wear a uniform.

While in the Air Force, I did some World War II reenacting. That was expensive, but my Air Force pay covered it nicely. Though the Missus Herself thought I had a large number of loose screws for wanting to do this, it did, as she said "get me out of the house and into the fresh air."

So what caused a relatively well-adjusted lad to want to continue to "play army" long after elementary school? In a word: it was fun!

Re-enacting is expensive. Uniforms, equipment and weapon(s) can run into the thousands of dollars, depending on the type of re-enacting one wishes to pursue. Some of the World War II re-enacting units actually have tanks. Real-live "need gas and maintenance but look awesome rumbling about the countryside" tanks.

I often wonder how some Congress-critters sleep at night, knowing that somewhere out there is a civilian organization, chock full of red-blooded Americans, with actual armored fighting vehicles. Not many of them, true, (and they're old) but armored fighting vehicles nevertheless. Much more potent than anything your average county sheriff can muster. I rather hope it keeps some liberals awake at night.

So expect to see some re-enacting tales in these spaces in the future. Though I did introduce this particular topic back in June of 2012, now that I think about it. I have many more stories to tell. The mournful mutter of musketry and things that go "boom".

I have seen a man get blown from a horse by a smooth-bore cannon (he survived). I've also seen the organizers of a Civil War re-enactment have to step in to prevent actual bloodshed during a "battle". But I've never seen "attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion." (Movie reference there, 20 Shrute bucks to anyone who can identify the movie.)

So expect more but for now some photographs which give you an idea of the authenticity we re-enactors strive for. (And an idea of just how much money we spend to get that authentic look. And I'm not talking Shrute bucks here!)

American Re-Enactors, First Infantry Division

German Re-Enactors
(Yes, that's an authentic German 75mm Anti-Tank Gun behind them.)

Now the following pictures I'll let you decide, re-enactors or the real thing? Evidence to support your answer is required. Otherwise, no Shrute bucks for you!

Woo Hoo!

I know, I know.

Bravo Foxtrot Delta.

Pour moi, c'est une grosse affaire. (VKPV - Votre kilométrage peut varier.)

Back to work...

Women in Combat (Revisited)

Back in February I posted on this topic. I'm revisiting things at this point in time due to a blog post I have just finished reading.

Chris Hernandez is a cop and a combat veteran. He's also a gifted writer who "gets it". If you have any interest in this topic at all, you need to go read his Women in Combat: Myths and realities article.

He's "been there, done that" so his opinion is worth far more than any pundit's in the MSM. (His opinion on this topic far outweighs my own as well.)

I highly recommend you read this particular article and make a habit of following this guy. He's well worth your time!

April the First

Yup, Quick Meme. A sure sign that I'm grasping at straws.

Okay, today is April Fool's Day

From the OAFSSRFTOTN:

April Fools' Day is celebrated in many countries on April 1 every year. Sometimes referred to as All Fools' Day, April 1 is not a national holiday, but is widely recognized and celebrated as a day when people play practical jokes and hoaxes on each other. 

In Italy, France and Belgium, children and adults traditionally tack paper fishes on each other's back as a trick and shout "April fish!" in their local languages (pesce d'aprile!, poisson d'avril! and aprilvis! in Italian, French and Flemish, respectively). Such fish feature prominently on many French late 19th to early 20th century April Fools' Day postcards. 

The earliest recorded association between April 1 and foolishness can be found in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales (1392). Many writers suggest that the restoration of January 1 by Pope Gregory XIII as New Year's Day of the Gregorian Calendar in the 16th century was responsible for the creation of the holiday, sometimes questioned for earlier references.

I lived in Germany for 7-plus years, not that far from Belgium. I'm guessing I was never in Belgium on April 1st as I'm pretty sure that I would've remembered Belgians walking around with paper fishes tacked to their backs. What a droll and unusual custom.

Why a fish I wonder? Somehow I cannot imagine American's running around yelling "April fish!"

Of course, I couldn't imagine Americans electing an incompetent as President. Though there is some historical precedent for that.

So yeah, I'm not really "in" to April Fool's Day. I find practical jokes and pranks to be somewhat tedious. Perhaps it's because I'm no good at them.

I'm also reminded that Tax Day is two weeks from today. Oh boy, something else to celebrate. Grumble...